


draw thy breath in pain

by iwritetrash



Series: all that lives must die [1]
Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, Drummond still dies, Funeral, Grief/Mourning, Honestly this is mostly a retelling of events with some introspection, Infidelity, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Relationship(s), Period-Typical Homophobia, Prostitution (mentioned), Religious Guilt, Slow Burn, Some sweetness before the death, The Iliad (mentioned), this is not the fix it fic you're looking for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 04:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12787302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwritetrash/pseuds/iwritetrash
Summary: in this harsh world draw thy breath in painto tell my story





	draw thy breath in pain

**Author's Note:**

> this is... pretty damn angsty. there's like a little bit of good stuff at the start and then it just slips into alfred mourning... but i figured it was about time i contributed to this fandom, so here i am.
> 
> also yes the title/summary is a reference to hamlet bc i am shakespeare trash and also these lines really make me think of drummond and alfred

It starts innocently enough. Stolen glances, innuendos, words laden with meanings buried so deep Alfred is almost certain he’s imagining it. His days are spent reading between the lines, pushing just a little further to gain mere millimetres of ground in this game of seduction and secrecy. 

Their hands brush together, their eyes lock across crowded rooms, and Alfred has to avert his eyes to hide the affection, the _desire_ , which he knows would be obvious to anyone who cared to look.

~ 

Alfred is not inexperienced in these sorts of affairs. He has been with men before, both romantically and otherwise. As a boy he’d shown disinterest in women since childhood, which had evolved from ‘focus on his studies’ to ‘focus on his work’ to ‘working for the Queen is awfully time consuming’ as far as his family was concerned. Alfred knew better.

At the tender age of fifteen he had fallen for the stable boy. It hadn’t led anywhere serious, beyond a few stolen kisses amongst the hay and Alfred riding his horse an awful lot more than usual. Eventually the stable boy had been offered another position elsewhere, and that was that.

When he was seventeen he lay with a man for the first time, a year or so older than himself, from another noble family, who he had met at a ball hardly weeks before. Their courtship had been brief, fuelled by lust; that first affair is burned on his brain, as is the shame he felt as he thumbed through his bible the evening after, a love letter from that man lying on his writing desk. Every love letter he received went unanswered for months on end, until eventually they stopped arriving altogether.

By the time he was twenty he had grown more comfortable with his less traditional desires, and had become well acquainted with brothels which might adequately satisfy those desires. A far cry from those innocent kisses in the back of the stable, or that stolen moment with a lost love, the smoky, opium filled brothels housed young men willing to do anything for the right price. Alfred can’t shake the memory of scared eyes and bruised, dirty skin from his memory, even now.

At twenty-two he’d had a short lived affair with another young nobleman in much the same situation, even as Alfred’s family pleaded with him to marry a woman. He’d revelled a little in the act of direct disobedience, even as he was forced to satisfy himself with rushed encounters and the constant fear of discovery. At the time he had called it love. Having met Edward Drummond, he now thinks his past affair was an abuse of the word. When the time came for his lover to marry, Alfred had called himself heartbroken. He had not yet learned the true meaning of that word either.  

Edward Drummond is different to Alfred’s past encounters. Neither an affair fuelled by passion, nor an innocent desire, his affection for Drummond smoulders quietly, building to a slow crescendo with every agonising day. Alfred wonders why it has taken so many years to find this man, whom he is confident is the other half of his very soul.

~

Drummond is engaged.

The words slice through Alfred like a knife – “ _my fiancée”_. Surely Edward would have said something earlier, wouldn’t have let Alfred fall so far for a man who is soon to be married. Alfred may be many hateful things he will surely be condemned for, but he has prided himself on never having been an adulterer. It seems Drummond had intended to make him just that.

A fleeting thought passes through Alfred’s mind – _you’re making it up. Edward Drummond has never felt a thing for you but friendship. You have twisted every action of his into something sinful, and dragged him into your infernal desires._

Those thoughts are dismissed when Alfred catches a glimpse of the shame in Edward’s eyes, and _goddamnit_ that look is enough to make even the blindest of men start to question Edward’s feelings for him.

Still, Alfred leaves Edward on the steps without a word. 

 _This is true heartbreak_ , Alfred thinks. He is wrong.

~

Alfred forgives him in France.

It’s a tentative forgiveness, and Alfred will admit that he still can’t bear the thought of Drummond with another woman, but there’s something about being in France, being away from the bustle of London, that makes him a little more careless. That, and Edward’s eyes pleading with his own.

Perhaps it is the escapism which appeals to him so much. Escape from the city, from fiancées and demanding families, from judgement, and from scrutiny. 

Alfred looks over at Edward, who seems to gravitate to his side without thinking about it (or maybe they both gravitate to each other), and smiles just a little. Perhaps an escape is just what they need.

~

The return to London is a jarring awakening from a wonderful dream. Alfred finds himself thrown back into the hustle and bustle of court, and his duties to the Queen, and the politics with which she chooses to concern herself.

Of course, this finds its way into his conversations with Edward, and, of course, it doesn’t end well.

Alfred knows how lovesick he must look, staring up at Edward with eyes not unlike those of the Queen’s lapdog, watery eyed, like he might burst into tears at the mere mention of Edward’s bride to be.

It is foolish, and Alfred is no longer a young boy with a silly little crush, yet he cannot help himself. Edward is, at least, quick to catch on. He doesn’t talk about his fiancée for very long before he senses Alfred’s obvious discomfort. It is as though Alfred has recoiled back from him at the reminder that he is spoken for, curled back into himself and retracted all of his advances.

Alfred throws his walls back up as they part ways, then spends his night wishing he had said something, anything, to Edward, instead of letting him walk away. 

~ 

Alfred is relieved to find that their conversation is swept quickly under the rug. 

~

Scotland. Forever burned into Alfred’s mind as the place where things changed forever, the place where Edward had kissed him in front of the setting sun, half-dressed with rum on their lips. 

In those moments before the kiss, where time seems to slow down to a snail’s pace, Alfred swears all the air has been sucked out of his lungs. He tells himself he’s breathless from the dancing, and not the mere sight of Edward Drummond in front of him in a state of disarray, the beginnings of an awed smile playing across his lips as he stares at Alfred.

 _He’s looking at me_ , Alfred realises, somewhat awed by the fact that this gorgeous, must-have-been-sculpted-by-an-angel man is staring at _him_ like he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Alfred’s lips move of their own accord, ‘ _these midsummer evenings are so enchanting, don’t you think?’_ He hears himself say. And then there it is. Time slows to a crawl, seconds seem to last whole hours, and then finally, _finally_ , Edward is leaning in towards him, taking the bait Alfred has been laying out for him since the day they met.

When their lips meet, Edward’s hesitancy confirms Alfred’s suspicions: he is new to this. No matter; Alfred can take the lead.

For those few perfect moments in front of the lake Alfred feels as though he’s truly been transported to heaven, or some idyllic plain where, just for now, he can truly be happy. It seems that, for those moments, they are invincible. 

~ 

The feeling doesn’t last. 

They return to London and, away from the freedom of the Scottish Highlands, the two are forced back into their roles, and back into hiding. This time it is far worse than their return from France. Alfred worries constantly over the consequences of his actions, spends hours poring over his bible, tracing familiar words until they’re burned into his memory. He fears there is no saving him now, no hope for him and his lover.

 _Condemned_. 

The word plays through his head on a constant loop. He is less concerned for his own fate – he made his peace with that a long time ago – but rather that of his lover. Edward is not perfect, but Alfred is certain that he deserves nothing less than Heaven itself, and to take his rightful place among the angels who must have created him.

 _Fiancée_.

Another constantly returning thought. Edward is engaged, and they are both to become adulterers. Yet another sin to add to their ever growing lists. From what Alfred has heard, Florence is a lovely girl, and he doesn’t doubt that she would make little complaint if Edward were to continue to see Alfred after their wedding, but Alfred also suspects she deserves far better.

Florence also deserves better than a fiancé who calls off the engagement mere weeks before the wedding, which is part of why Alfred is so opposed to the idea. He speaks carelessly when Edward makes his announcement, and he sees how his words hurt his lover. That was not what he had intended, but he supposes it might be for the best. Perhaps it Is best for Edward if they go their separate ways; Edward will get married, build his career, and live a long and prosperous life, and Alfred… will return to how his life was before Edward crashed into it and turned his world upside down.

~

Alfred writes a letter barely a day after their fight. It is brief, lest it be intercepted by some nosy messenger boy looking to make a little extra money off some gossip, and it hardly does justice to Alfred’s feelings, but, for someone willing to read between the lines, it says enough.

~

Alfred waits at the restaurant where they met before, at the same table, alone again in a room buzzing with business talk and gruff old men. He feels out of place, far too young to be dining among the elite old men who fill the tables around him, and alone. Still alone. 

He pours himself another glass of champagne from the bottle he’d ordered for them to share, and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. It’s getting late, and Alfred is certain that if Edward was coming he would be here by now, and yet… he cannot bring himself to give in. Not yet.

~

Edward never shows up.

Alfred finds out about the shooting the next day. Edward is already dead.

~

Alfred can’t explain the feeling that accompanies Edward’s death. ‘ _Too soon,_ ’ comes to mind, but that hardly scratches the surface of the pain that sits in his chest, pressing down on his lungs, constantly making it hard to breathe.

When the Duchess handed him the letter he already knew it was bad news, perhaps part of him had even predicted the contents before he began to read, but that didn’t lessen the blow he felt. She guided him through it, talked him through the initial pain, stopped him from breaking down right there in the hallway, but her help was short-lived. It sustained him to his chambers, where he was able to cry in peace, and no further.

Alfred spends days locked away, as long as he can without calling their relationship into question. Wilhelmina is an unlikely ally during the mourning process. He isn’t sure how much she knows of his true relationship with Edward, but it seems she understands, and that’s all Alfred needs.

She distracts him from the questions that fill his mind when he’s alone, that keep him awake at night, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

_Would Edward have come? Did he get the letter? Did he die believing I didn’t love him? Did I ever tell Edward I loved him – that I still love him?_

Sleepless nights were a fact of his existence now, but Wilhelmina kept his days free of torment. She kept him almost sane through the worst of it all, with empty chatter and meaningless card games just to fill time. It helps.

~  
  
The funeral is hard.

Burying his lover is hard.

Sitting in silence, pretending he isn’t torn apart, is hard.

Meeting Edward’s fiancée is hard.

Pretending to be Edward’s friend is hard.

Waiting until he’s away from the crowds to cry is hard.

Leaving Edward’s body there in the unforgiving ground is hard. 

Alfred chooses to forget the funeral, to place it in a box in his mind and lock it away for a time when he is more able to deal with it, more able to cope. Maybe that day will come, when he will be able to think back on the day he buried his lover and not want to fling himself into the earth beside him, and maybe it will not. Either way, it is not today, so it must wait.

~

Alfred wears black.

When people ask, he tells them he is mourning a distant relative, or that he merely likes the colour. He doesn’t admit that he wears black for Edward.

He gets rid of his colours, especially the ones Edward told him he liked, and washes his world to a dismal grayscale. If he cannot weep for Edward then he must do what he can to honour his memory, and black is all the mourning society has afforded him.

 _This is true heartbreak,_ he thinks, _this is the kind which will not mend._

~

Alfred cannot bring himself to read The Iliad again after Edward’s passing.

The death of Patroclus, which moved him somewhat before, now makes him weep at the mere thought of it. The great Achilles had been so stricken by the death of his Patroclus that he had been willing to kill Hector, an act which would be the maker of his own doom, and yet Alfred cannot even mourn openly for his Edward.

What a twisted game the fates have played with him, he muses.

He burns his copy of The Iliad three months after the funeral. He cannot bear to look at it anymore.

~

It doesn’t feel real. Alfred knows Edward is gone, watched them bury his body in the ground, and yet somehow he still expects to see his lover rounding a corner in the palace, or waking up beside him with messy hair and a sleepy smile, or coming to sit in the empty seat opposite him at the restaurant where he still dines once a week. Alone. Always alone.

He wonders if it will ever sink in, if he will ever truly come to terms with Edward’s absence. He supposes one day he must, and one day the ache in his chest will fade, and one day he will stop feeling so haunted.

Alfred dreads the day that comes, the day the Edward Drummond fades to nothing more than a memory.

~

Alfred marries a woman named Cecelia five years after Edward’s death. He doesn’t love her; it is a match founded solely on convenience, but Alfred gave up on love five years ago when Edward Drummond bled out on the streets of London.

**Author's Note:**

> leave me a comment or kudos or something if you liked this bc i am desperate for validation... also thanks so much for reading this <3


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